Dismasted
by Victoria Bitter
Summary: Kennedy is wounded in the fight for Renown...but how badly?


It wasn't that bad, not really. He remembered when he was ten years old, he'd fallen from his pony and seen the bone of his arm come through the flesh. That had been a far worse pain, a shocking, shattering pain. This, at least, he could deal with. He could still stand, still walk...only the ship seemed to be pitching inordinately considering the calm seas, and he hadn't entirely wanted to stand in the first place. Better to sit. Still, he had felt worse pain.   
  
A sudden fiery flare shoved Archie's stomach into his throat, and he swallowed hard, ducking his head as he concentrated on keeping his guts where they belonged. All right, so perhaps he had felt worse pain, but this was still quite noticeable, and seemed to be growing more so by the moment.   
  
It was odd. It hadn't hurt at all when it happened. There was only an incredible pressure, a dull impact that staggered him back and pummeled the breath from his lungs, leaving him gasping and muddy-minded for a few moments. But he'd been back on his feet soon, dispatched another Dago and helped Halloway fend off a vicious Seniorita who's appropriated cutlass indicated anything but amorous intent. It had only been something of an ache then, like the throbbing aftermath of a solid punch. It didn't begin to burn until later, but now the fire seemed to be growing, blooming within him like a poisoned flower. Still, it wasn't that bad. Not even now.  
  
He hadn't looked at it yet. Didn't need to, when he considered the matter. What was there that he could do? There was only the barest smudge of blood on the outside of his dark jacket, and though Archie was no surgeon, he reckoned his shirt, waistcoat, and coat were doing a fine job of bandaging the wound. It would be ridiculous to bother Clive with something that barely glossed his palm crimson when poor Bush was cleaved nearly in two and dozens of other men were moaning and crying in great lakes of blood all around the battle-slick deck. Nay, he'd wait his turn, and then, when Clive had dealt with those, he would see about getting it sewn up proper.   
  
Maybe some laudanum too. Christ, but it was beginning to bloody burn.   
  
"Everything all right, Sir?" Archie forced his eyes open, hardly realizing he had closed them. There was a vague smudge swimming in a sea of blue, and he blinked twice, clearing his head until the image resolved itself.  
  
"Matthews." The boatswain's weathered face was a picture of concern, and Archie saw that he was a moment short of sending word for Clive. The Doctor would be honour bound to come to him then - he was an officer, and of the wounded, only Bush held precedence. His conscience wouldn't allow it. His own wound wasn't serious. "I'm fine, Matthews...just...thinking."  
  
"I reckon we all are, sir. Do you suppose they'll let him keep his command?"  
  
Archie frowned. He'd thought for certain he'd heard the men say...but then, battle rumours were always uncertain, and if he still lived, perhaps there was also hope for young Wellard. "Then Sawyer is alive?"  
  
Matthew's head bowed slightly, and the sorrow in his eyes told Archie everything. "Nay. Dagos shot him...Mr. Wellard too." Damn. He hardly heard as Matthews continued. "I'd meant Mr. Buckland, sir. Mr. Hornblower found him all trussed up in his bed like a Christmas goose. He'd been sleeping when the prisoners got out. Do you suppose they'll let him keep her?"   
  
That poisoned flower was larger now, slipping red-hot petals up around his throat. He barely managed some noise of falsely amused indifference, and mercifully, Matthews seemed to understand. Knuckling his brow, he nodded a "sir" and disappeared to the ugly duties that waited for him now in the wake of battle.   
  
It hurt, it hurt horribly, but it wasn't that bad. It couldn't be that bad. They'd lost Sawyer, probably Bush, and now Buckland was in question for real incompetence, not merely muddled deviousness or indecision. Bloody hell, but the whole chain of command was coming down around his ears. Pure process of elimination seemed to have suddenly rendered him the Second Lieutenant, and he had to be all right. Wounded, yes, but not seriously. Couldn't be serious. Horatio would need him now, more than ever.   
  
Archie shifted position, trying to find some way of making it hurt less without attracting attention. Couldn't have anyone sending for Clive, and he'd already barely gotten by with Matthews. A thin prickle of fear teased up the base of his fine, a shrill, traitorous voice, but he quickly forced it down. All he needed was some laudanum and a few stitches. He'd be well soon enough.  
  
Out of the corner of his uncertain vision, he caught a figure moving towards him. Horatio. Archie felt suddenly weak. He couldn't let his friend see him like this, not now, not before he had a chance to get himself together. Horatio had more than enough to worry about without adding Fourth/Second Lieutenant Archibald Kennedy to that list. He forced his spine straight, ignoring the sudden black border that began to mist the edges of his vision.   
  
Take the initiative. Get him into a quick, light conversation. Let him see everything is all right, and maybe he won't pay too much attention. Maybe he'd just go away. "I heard about Buckland." He tried to summon a carefree chuckle, find the mildly biting sense of humour that had once been so easy, but the sound seemed a grating strangulation of false pleasure to his ear, and the price it demanded brought flashes of white agony behind his eyes. He heard himself continue as if in a dream. "Silly old fool."   
  
It hurt. It hurt worse than anything he had ever felt, ever imagined, but it wasn't that bad. It couldn't be that bad. There was only the smallest smear of blood. It couldn't be that bad. But this was bad...Horatio was looking at him with suspicion in those large, damnably intelligent eyes. "Is that your blood?"   
  
*Of course it isn't my blood, silly. I was killing Spaniards, you see, and it's rather a messy business.* But he couldn't say that. Horatio knew something was wrong, but maybe all was not lost. He just needed to tell the truth, because no matter how bad the pain was, the wound itself couldn't be that serious. His face twisted into a rictus shadowing a smile. "It's just a scratch."   
  
Horatio didn't believe him. That much was clear. He was leaning in closer now, looking far too closely. Had to say something. This was supposed to be light conversation, not an interrogation of the blood on his coat. His blurred eye caught the red-soaked form of a Spaniard sprawled near the rail. There. That was a serious wound. This was just pain. He took a deep breath, shivering at the white-hot quality of the oxygen as it blasted into him. "Prisoners under lock and key?"  
  
He was going to vomit. That black frame at the edges of his vision was thicker now, and he could hardly think. Horatio said something, he didn't know what, but the words sounded like they came from underwater. Archie's balance was deserting him, he began to reel back, but then fingers were at his coat, and Horatio was ripping it open.   
  
Oh dear. There was quite a lot more blood than he'd thought.  
  
Blood seemed to be everywhere, in fact. Not only was there far too much of it reddening his vest, his shirt, the top of his trousers, but there were blood red fireworks sparking over the image of Horatio's stricken face, and as his stomach heaved and clenched, he knew that copper sweet saltiness had nothing to do with his morning meal. Blood, blood and pain seemed to have taken over everything.   
  
Horatio was frightened. He had to do something, say something. He was so brave, yes, but Horatio was also so young, and more or less Captain now...he couldn't be worrying about Archie at a time like this. "It's nothing to fret about, Horatio, you know how much things can bleed even when they aren't at all serious."   
  
It's what he wanted to say, what he tried to say, what he almost thought he said. But all that came was a bit of a gurgle, a wash of salt sweet in his mouth, a wet warmth on his chin, and a sudden flush of pain that robbed him of his balance and hurt too much to even cry out. He was falling now, going to strike the hard, unforgiving, blood-slick planks and maybe knock himself out of this misery.   
  
He didn't strike.   
  
At least, not the wood. There was warm wool beneath his cheek, warm wool over living flesh, the tickle of wild curls that were not his own against his forehead, and he was being held almost too tightly in Horatio's arms. Archie could feel the other man's heart beating far too fast, feel him shaking, and he pressed his eyes tight, fighting the tears that had not even threatened when the pain was all his own. Horatio was shaking, but it couldn't mean that he was himself in pain, no, not even with brave, stupid, stoic Horatio always asking about others before himself. It couldn't be true.   
  
*You can't be wounded too, Horatio. Not you, because someone has to remain. Someone has to remain strong, and I'm dying.*   
  
THE END 


End file.
